Linger
by Laimielle
Summary: It's hard enough, being faced with such a crucial decision to make. An even harder thing to face is the person you least want to see, demanding that you let him make that difficult decision for you. MelloxMatt.


_Disclaimer: I don't own Death Note._

_Warning: This is rated **M** for a reason. Mello acts a bit bipolar in this one-shot, so beware of swift mood changes. Also, Mello's real name is somewhere in here. I'd like to include that there are hints of spoilers, but it isn't too bad as far as that goes._

_I sincerely hope you enjoy it. :)_

* * *

**Linger**

Contrary to what most people thought, Mello was not the most emotional of the three of L's successors. To the select few that have had the opportunity to know us personally, they only saw two brilliant children. There was never a third in their eyes. Of course, they knew of the third's existence. But there was no point in wasting one's energy on scrutinizing the third of the group, because there were only two competitors with one outcome. There wasn't a third; there isn't a third.

Honestly, I'd never had any problem with that. I was, and still am, the kind of person to vocalize my thoughts, feelings, and concerns. But now that I think about it, there's only one person my mouth is always metaphorically glued shut around. He's often times loud, overly confident, and irritable. The fact that I'm absolutely nothing like him is the only reason he tolerates my presence.

Everyone thinks that Near and Mello are complete opposites. Near, having been blessed with the ability to have a stoic and indifferent attitude regarding everything, and Mello, exploding in a fit of anger at the most unexpected times. Everyone assumes that they complete each other, because each possesses what the other lacks, and that they have the ability to work together as L. And that, quite possibly, if they play their cards right, they may even surpass him.

They're wrong. Roger was being foolish, coming up with such a heinous idea, and Near was being equally as foolish in thinking that it just might work. I'm not sure about Mello, though. Maybe he actually possesses some common sense in that blond head of his, and blatantly refused to work with Near because he knew as well as I did that it just _wouldn't work_. Or maybe his refusal was only based on his obvious dislike for the emotionless albino, in which case, he's more foolish than all of them.

I would never tell Mello that, though.

Since I piqued no one's interest, I went unnoticed. My compatibility with Mello meant nothing because I didn't have the ambition that Mello and Near had. No one saw that this ambition—the desire to be L, growing so strong that they let it dictate their lives—was an incredibly important factor. Near and Mello would never cease to strive to be L. That was, and is, the only thing they have in common.

I, on the other hand, am indifferent. The fact that I have no desire to be L is a strong deviation among all of the Wammy kids, and yet no one noticed. Again, I really don't care. I just find it odd that no one could pick up on this. I don't even think L did.

Mello and I could do it. Mello and I are what people _think_ Mello and Near are. We're complete opposites, and that's why I'm the closest thing he has to a friend.

Maybe if I _wanted_ super crime-fighting powers, we could surpass Near. But I don't, and ironically, that would be the only flaw in the aforementioned hypothetical statement.

I know he's home when I hear the loud opening and closing of the door to our temporary apartment. It abruptly shakes me out of my musings, and oddly, I'm a bit perturbed because of it. I wasn't done thinking. I don't have these deep inner monologues often, damn it, and I probably won't have another one for a long time.

I can feel the life starting to slip back into my eyes as the empty glazed look that I usually get when I'm thinking disappears. That's when I become aware of my hand-held game beeping at ten-second intervals and the lit cigarette on the clean, cream-colored carpet. Formally clean would be more accurate, actually. I don't remember the point when it slid from my mouth and onto the ground, honestly, and I'm angry at myself. I suppose I should be grateful that a fire hadn't started, though.

Yet.

I quickly pick it up and wipe it on my jeans in an attempt to put it out, since my brain is still foggy and I'm not thinking logically. The haze in my mind abruptly vanishes when I feel the uncomfortable burning sensation on my thigh. I then realize that I've placed a lit cigarette on the surface of my thin jeans, and that's probably why I'm stifling a yelp of pain right now.

When I look up from my leg, I'm startled to see Mello leaning leisurely against the door frame. The fire in his eyes belies his relaxed posture. His eyes don't leave mine for a few long moments. I'm not sure why he's angry, but I never am. He could be irritated because of something that happened within the short duration of his trip to the grocery store to get some chocolate, but I doubt that. It seems like his anger is directed at me, like it often is.

I'm the first to look away, predictably. He knows that he can make me uncomfortable simply by staring. He knows how those cerulean eyes shake me to the core. And, in total Mello-esque fashion, he uses my weaknesses to work for his benefit.

"What the fuck are you doing, Matt?" is the first thing that leaves his lips. It's a likely thing for him to say, and yet somehow, I feel surprised and slightly frightened. He can see that, too, by the poorly hidden smirk playing on his lips.

I feel a blush bloom across my face, which makes me more ashamed with myself than I already felt. He can see it, I'm sure, but I don't want to find out how he reacts to my embarrassing cowering. My eyes avert themselves from his shoulder, his shoulder being too close to his face, and land on the unopened Hershey bar he's gripping in his hand.

"Thinking." I answer honestly. There isn't a believable lie that would benefit me, anyway, so the truth is the only option left.

He fingers the edge of the wrapper with his thumb as he responds to my answer.

"Do you think that will help us catch Kira?" he asks. Even though I'm not looking at him, I know he's smirking even wider. I can hear it in his voice.

I could say yes, and feed him some lie about deducing things, contemplating evidence, and calculating percentages like L did, but he would know. It would only make things worse for both of us, as I hate to get scolded and he needs his head clear if he wants to get anywhere with finding one of the world's most dangerous murderers.

I can't lie to him.

"No...it doesn't. I'm sorry, Mello."

The words leave my mouth, all of which are an automatic lie. I'm unsure how it happened, because I'd consciously told myself that not being truthful would get me nowhere. I can't take what I said back. I don't even care enough to, even if I had the chance.

I'm not sorry, and he probably knows it, too. I feel no remorse for taking a few minutes to contemplate a few things that have been irritating me for quite awhile now. I _am_ sorry that things are this way, and that he can't be more tolerant. I'm sorry he feels the need to be angry the majority of the time.

I am _not_ sorry for doing something that every human being is entitled to do, and that is to _think_.

"Stand the fuck up, and do something useful." he growls. There's no longer a smirk in his voice. He just sounds angry and slightly malicious, like he normally does.

The sound of the wrapper tearing is the only audible thing for a moment, and then he stalks off without another word.

I don't even blink for a few seconds, even though inside I'm boiling with anger. It makes me slightly proud that I can mask my emotions so easily that I don't even have to think about it anymore. It just happens. It's a defense mechanism I've developed, only because of Mello. I suppose that's one thing I can thank the blond hellion for.

I grab my game to shut of the infernal beeping sound, startled to see that my hands are shaking. It's difficult to push the tiny button. With every beep, my calm facade crumbles a little more.

The screen goes black, finally. Before slipping it in my pocket, I think better of it. Visions of the small machine rubbing up against my thigh creep into my mind and I flinch involuntarily, the throbbing on my leg intensifying because of it.

My brain is elsewhere, once again, as I stumble to my laptop, situated by my unmade bed. I do this out of habit, because anyone with common sense knows not to disobey Mello, unless an angry, leather-clad blond wielding a gun is actually desirable to some people. Which, I'm quite certain, probably isn't.

With new animosity toward Mello flowing through my veins and angry thoughts rushing through my head—thoughts that would have a more welcomed place in Mello's mind, not mine—I come to the realization that I'm still being unproductive. That thought is quickly pushed away in the flurry of anger, which is full-fledged by now.

I don't know how to deal with it. I'm anxious, because I've never felt this way toward Mello before, and I'm confused, because I have no idea how to get this anger to go away. I don't know why I'm feeling this way, because I've dealt with the things he's said to me in the past. It's not that it didn't bother me, because it certainly did. But I'd always felt anger for myself, even though I knew I didn't deserve it. It was always there, suffocating and detrimental to my mental health. And even then, it was familiar, and I take comfort in familiar things. It wasn't so bad, that way. It was still completely unwanted, though.

I want to stop and think, to ask myself if Mello had known that, would he continue breaking me like this? I don't want to dwell on that too much, because I'm afraid that the answer would be no. It bothers me because Mello matters. His opinions, his feelings, and his wellbeing all matter too much to me. I think that's where the anger for myself comes in. I care for him. I think that all I've been doing is subconsciously caring for him more with each verbal blow he gives me with the pathetic hope in mind that he might just return that small gesture of affection.

With that realization, my anger turns to a place that it's more familiar with—myself. I'm disappointed and ashamed that I let Mello do this to me, but mostly because I did this to myself. I let him in, without even his knowledge. I let him demean me because I foolishly thought that he would appreciate the submissiveness. I thought that he would let me in, if I put up with him long enough.

Why am I seeing this now? Why couldn't I have this epiphany before I allowed myself to get too close?

My fingers are frozen on the keyboard. The screen looks very blurry, so much so that I can't make out a single word. It's perplexing, how the text is bleeding together like that.

I almost gasp out loud when I feel the warm tracks on my face, each a being highway carrying an irritating, fat tear drop. I'm surprised because I hadn't felt the knot in my throat that I usually feel when I'm upset over something. The tears came unexpectedly, and there was no time to prepare for it. I wasn't given the opportunity to stifle the humiliating moisture from leaking from my eyes. Now I'm feeling a blush staining my cheeks for the second time today, even though there's no one here to witness it.

I bring my hand to my face and brush the incriminating evidence of humanity from my flushed skin. My hand rubs up against it too roughly and a frustrated sound between a whimper and a growl bubbles from my throat.

My chair squeaks loudly as I turn around. It serves as a jeering reminder of the present, somehow.

I can't look at the computer screen anymore. It was blindingly bright and harsh on my eyes. Instead, my gaze drifts to the ugly stain on the carpet that I'm pleasantly surprised Mello hadn't noticed. He's never been obsessive about cleanliness of his living space, but it's something he could certainly get mad about.

I thread my fingers through my hair lethargically. It's a futile attempt to calm myself. I've always liked it when my hair or scalp is played with. No one has done it to me before, but I often find my own digits massaging my cranium on their own accord. This is one of those instances, but it doesn't seem to be helping much this time.

I have to stop thinking about the person that evokes these feelings in me and start thinking about how to fix the things that I wasn't aware were broken until now. There's only one answer, but I don't want to think about it. The ramifications are all too real, and I know that I may only end up making things worse for myself than if I just stay.

With that idea in the forefront of my mind, I analyze it. I could leave. I could permanently remove myself from the destructive force, and I could miss it. I could miss the fact that he's the only one who has ever given me any form of attention, negative or not. That might hurt more than it would help, but living with the knowledge of never trying that route as a way to alleviate some of this...I think that would be worse than dealing with his absence.

With that in mind, I stand slowly. My legs tremble and the pain on my thigh makes itself more apparent. My eyes are still on the stain on the carpet as I blindly grope behind myself for a nearly empty pack of cigarettes, which my hand finally locates on the edge of the desk.

It's all I need for now. The laptop stays plugged to the wall, which is quite an oddity for me, since I behave like the thing is my child. The feeling of carelessness is unexpectedly refreshing, though, so there's nothing to be gained in fighting it.

My mind is still torn, but my body seems to be solid in the decision I've apparently made.

Cigarettes in hand, eyes and nose probably still swollen, and the ability to care left behind me, I shuffle out of the dimly lit room with any rational thought abandoned.

I'm vaguely aware of his frame hunched over several sheets of paper fanned out on the coffee table, but it doesn't completely register in my mind that he's right here in the living room and that I should probably be stealth while doing this. Or, better yet, wait until he's on another quest for chocolate. The problem is, my legs seem to be in perpetual motion and I can't get them to slow down.

"Where are you going?"

After a few silent moments, I realize that I've stopped. This makes me want to scream out loud in frustration. I couldn't get myself to stop, and he could. He has more power over me than I have over myself, which is another debilitating blow to my pride.

I'd like to tell myself that it isn't simply Mello that stopped me. Maybe it's the uncharacteristic undertone of curiosity in his voice behind the annoyance that stops me in my unsure tracks. Or maybe there's still some hope lingering in my mind that he has something to say that will make me feel better.

If I'm going to be honest with myself, it's probably the latter. It's pathetic of me, but it's the unfortunate truth.

"Where are you going?" he repeats, louder and rougher this time. That voice makes me shiver, and not out of fear or anger this time. Because it's so foreign to me, I can't identify it. I can only let that feeling slide through me until it's gone, and then I can focus on the present events unfolding.

"Out." I mumble, not having even made the conscious decision to omit that clichéd statement. My evasive answer infuriates him, as expected, and he growls venomously in my general direction before leaving whatever he was so focused on to make his way over to me.

My eyes are dry now, so I can see everything much more clearly. My mind seems to be going through a similar process because I'm feeling the familiar intimidation that usually washes over me when Mello is close enough to share his body heat. I think his presence is what's sobering me up. I wonder how he does that, not only to me, but to everyone that's ever been around him. I've seen it happen, and I'm awed by it every time.

His eyes widen slightly, almost imperceptibly when he looks at my face with a critical eye. I realize that he's probably looking at the reddened skin around my eyes and the pinkish tint to my cheeks where I'd rubbed away the tears roughly without any consideration for the sensitive flesh there.

This makes me want to run away from him, in any direction, so badly. It makes me flush, again, under the angry red marks on my face. I should have remembered to put my goggles on. That way, he wouldn't be able to see how easily I break down. He wouldn't be able to see that everyone was wrong about his contrasting perfection to Near, and that the only one that has a looser grip on his emotions is me.

"Where...are you going?" he asks again, his tone now completely saturated with confusion. It's strange that doesn't even try to hide it. He's always so paranoid and guarded. I take a moment to enjoy that with a perverse sort of satisfaction. For some reason, it makes me feel almost giddy that I've done something that Mello had been unable to predict, and that I caught him so off guard, he's feeling something other than irritation for once.

"I think..." I begin, and then pause to cough because my voice is clogged with unshed tears. And then I blush again, brilliantly, because of that sign of weakness. Because of that, I can no longer look into his questioning eyes with any semblance of confidence. Instead, my stare find the door as my voice fills the uncomfortable silence of the room.

"I think you need to find a new techie, Mello." I mumble lowly, figuring that it's enough explanation. Apparently, it isn't, because as I roughly push him away from me so that I can make my way to the door, he uses both hands to grip my upper arms and swiftly shoves me against the wall.

My eyes meet his instinctively. I don't find the anger that I expected to be there. There's something else, other than the confusion that he's already made obvious, lurking in that wild gaze. I would give anything to be permitted the time to observe it more. I've never seen him look like this.

"_Why?_" he asks. His voice is uncharacteristically quiet. That makes me worried, because it contradicts the stress in his eyes. I afraid that he'll do something dangerous. Mello is unpredictable, and when I acknowledge that factor, I'm instilled with paralyzing fear. The regret for making the choice to leave in Mello's presence is much stronger than I'd imagined it to be.

He suddenly leans closer to me, almost unbearably close. It's his way of demanding the answer to the question I've not yet replied to. Maybe he doesn't want to speak in fear of his voice coming out with a pathetic edge to it again, and so he has to resort to body language. I don't like this intimidation tactic, simply because it works too well.

I slide down the wall slowly. It's my own body language, predictably deceiving me. It's obvious to Mello now, what the emotions boiling inside of me are. He has an advantage, and I'm certain he will use it.

That's why I'm surprised when he doesn't.

I find it astonishing when he kneels down to my level. That is not something Mello would do. Mello is aggressive and domineering, so logically, he would maintain his stance of towering above my crumpled form against the wall.

He's uncomfortably close to me again. If my legs, which are folded up against my chest, weren't in the way, I would probably be wedged tightly between Mello and the wall. I shiver at the thought, fear and a little bit of something else making me start to sweat just thinking about it.

I can't attribute my perspiration to my troubling thoughts completely. His body heat is radiating off of him and onto me. I wish we could talk with some physical distance between us, because I'm feeling light-headed with the close contact. That's just Mello, though, and his aura of intimidation would make anyone squirm.

Maybe if I answer his question, he'll allow me some room to breathe. Maybe that's all he wants from me, and if I stop withholding that, he'll let me go.

"I need a break...I need a permanent break. Get out of the way."

It's probably the gutsiest thing I've ever said to him. That's actually really noteworthy, all things considered. I'm more terrified than I ever have been right now, and _this_ is the moment when I finally say what's on my mind to Mello? It's inconceivable in my mind.

Comprehension is only way I can describe the expression on his face after the blunt words leave my lips. I'm relieved, to say the least, because I know he won't require any further explanation. He wasn't ranked second best in Wammy's House for no reason. He's brilliant, and he catches on quickly.

Because of this, I'm fairly confident that he'll let me go. I doubt he's going to exploit himself by forcing me to stay here. He can't, rationally. He just can't. His company is no longer desirable to me, as it honestly never has been, and I fully intend to escape from the hell he's created for me. I just hope that I'm not too accustomed to this hell, and end up confused and alone outside of the circle of dysfunction we've created for ourselves.

This certainty of a smooth escape is shattered when he tightens his grip on me, his hands still on my arms.

Even though I'm afraid to, I look at his face closely again for some reason as to why he isn't disengaging himself from me. The crazed look that frightens me more than anything hasn't disappeared, unfortunately, but there's also something coupling with that. It's some sort of raw shame and hurt that I've never seen there before, and probably never will again. I'm literally frozen with astonishment until successfully convincing myself that it's a hallucination. It's very probable in my current state of mind, admittedly.

I'm so shaken, I can't find it in myself to verbally protest or lean away when he slowly and unexpectedly inclines his head closer to mine.

"What should I do?" he asks, his breath ghosting over my face. His voice is now a whisper, worn and almost broken. Even though that makes him seem small, the conviction hidden in that whisper makes up for the helplessness in his voice.

I don't know how to answer. It's not a rhetorical question; it's directed specifically to me. I know him well enough to know that he's demanding my response in his mind right now, and that if I deprive him of the answer he seeks, he will make me pay for it, one way or another.

But are things different, if even just for now? He has never acted so peculiarly before. Maybe this changes the outcome for myself.

Even if I wanted to reply to his odd question, I wouldn't be able to. The meaning of his inquiry is lost to me. I don't know what he wants me to say and I have no idea what he's saying. I don't think even _he_ knows what he's saying.

I let the silence hang in the air, save for the sound of our shallow breathing, because there is no other choice.

With each passing moment, the tension seems to grow substantially. Despite this, stress begins to leak off of me. Because he hasn't done anything yet, I can let my anxiety drain away. Of course, I'm not foolish enough to not consider the possibility that he's just lulling me into a false sense of security, but even with logic screaming at me not to put my guard down, I allow my body to relax.

This isn't to say I'm not still on edge, because I certainly am. Not once do I permit myself to look at something else other than Mello, even though I desperately want to.

My thighs part slightly, a physical sign of my gradually dissipating uneasiness. He can see this, and he knows that there's nothing I can do to stop him from what he wants to do right now. This is how I give up, which is a different tactic of mine in an attempt to convince him to let me leave without actually saying anything. Verbal commands hadn't ever worked on Mello in the past, anyway.

My gaze on him never wavers as I attempt to keep my facade of trust solid in Mello's eyes.

Unfortunately for me, I can't keep a watchful eye on him for long. His face angles downward and his blond hair, that is unusually messy for the immaculately neat Mello, obstructs my view of his face. A groan of frustration nearly escapes my lips before the sound is caught in my throat, as I'm seized by surprise at the suddenness of his inclination into me.

He's used the gap between my legs to his advantage and has made his way in between them. Vaguely, I wonder if this is another of his intimidation tactics. It most likely is, since it's certainly working on me. I hate that he probably knows that. The sudden tautness of my muscles underneath his hands is enough proof that he's getting to me. He's probably enjoying the fact that he has the ability to put me on the verge of hyperventilation.

"What should I do?" he asks again, his voice quieter this time to accommodate for the nearly nonexistent distance between us. I can hear him clearly, because his mouth is positioned right next to my ear. This throws me into another whirlwind of confusion, and eventually shame, when I involuntarily shudder underneath him.

The first thing I think of at the first hint of a sensation against the flesh of my neck is the question of why he isn't smirking against my skin. I want to know why he isn't getting some sort of sadistic satisfaction at the expense of my discomfort.

Any thoughts after that are meaningless fragments of nonsensical musings. He has successfully rendered me the ability to think properly. Is it because I had been doing too much of just that earlier? Is this punishment?

His fingers thread through my hair, just as I had done to myself mere moments before. It has the desired effect when he does it. It's inexplicably much more relaxing than when I do it myself. It's hard, to not accept the comfort his fingers bring as his they flow through my hair almost soothingly, grazing my scalp lightly in the process.

And then, ultimately, I decided that it is futile to try to grasp onto anything useful floating in my brain with the feeling of his teeth gently nipping at the skin just above my erratic pulse. How he can do this softly, without inducing any physical pain, is beyond me. Why he would want to do this without inflicting pain is also unanswerable.

I have to say something. I have to know what's happening and what's fueling these actions and what sort of twisted logic he's putting behind it.

"Mel—"

"Yeah?" he breaths against my skin, not even waiting for me to get the last syllable of his name out.

The feeling of him mouthing the word against me sends a mini explosion of tremors through every fiber of my being. I rock against him, against my mind's wishes. And then embarrassment floods through me, because I honestly hadn't meant to do that. Fortunately, he doesn't outwardly show any indication that he minds. He only clutches me tighter, and the small remnants of the sanity I'd cherished so dearly fall away in an instant as a result.

Still, I find it within me to put forth more effort.

"What a-are you—_ah!_" I unintentionally hiss out as his lips unexpectedly dart to my jaw. His message to me is received clearly; he doesn't want to be asked about what he's doing or why he's doing it. Although it's bothering me, not knowing why this is happening, there's a part of me that's afraid of knowing the answer. It doesn't make sense. That frightened part is significant enough to take into consideration, though, and so I heed to it, like I usually do. It's just one of the several character flaws I possess that I haven't bothered to try to change.

Still frozen in shock, I remain motionless as his moist lips travel along the length of my quivering jaw, his fingers still tangling themselves in my hair. He must fully know how uncomfortable I am, as it's painfully obvious. Despite this, his perseverance is not damaged, probably because of my lack of blatant refusal.

I honestly can't say why I'm not refusing. I'd like to believe that it's because the complete shock has left me frozen.

When his lips find the corner of my mouth, which is slightly agape, I begin to choke on a silent scream forming in the back of my throat. It's just a delicate brush of his lips, barely making contact, but it's received readily by my nerves, alight and on edge.

That scream is lost in the confines of his mouth, just slightly open like my own. I don't remember the moments in which he swiftly pressed his lips against mine; that's forever lost, unless Mello himself can recall it.

But that doesn't matter.

What matters is gaining control of the confusion that's threatening to dominate my whole being. Maybe the best way to do that is to not even attempt to figure this out. Any plausible answer leads to a dead end, with meddlesome logic always getting in the way.

I realize, as I delve into the feeling of his lips coaxing a reaction from mine, that thinking about anything but _this_ is hopeless. I will get _nowhere_.

My eyes close, which is a sorry attempt at escaping reality. And then, throughly surprising myself, my mouth begins to move against his. Timidly at first, similar to his slow movements. Whatever it is, instinct, automatic reaction, or simply something else not known to me, I'm too weak to stop it.

His reaction is instantaneous. His movements become more fevered...almost frantic. This is another personality trait that I didn't know of, coming out at the oddest time. Doesn't he realize that I can feel his desperation, coming through somewhere in the tight hold he has on me? Doesn't he care?

I, myself, can't bring myself to. The escalating passion in this drawn-out kiss has heightened my physical senses, and my mental ones are suffering because of it. Idly, I wonder if he's experiencing the same thing.

His tongue prods my bottom lip gently, for reasons unknown to me. My mouth is already slightly parted because of the silent gasp of shock I'd emitted earlier, so this action isn't necessary. Maybe it's just etiquette to warn me this way; I'm not sure. But because I'm liking the feeling of the last remnants of my anxiety leaving, forced out and replaced a growing sense of titillation, my mouth opens wider in an act of welcoming for the invasion I'm anticipating. The slow, almost cautious touch of the warm muscle in my mouth sets a new round of tremors in motion, these ones being a bit more intense.

I think he likes the feeling of the shiver that travels through my frame. In fact, I know he does, because the soft gasp he releases in my mouth attests to that. And that simple sensation is overwhelming, so overwhelming that for just a small moment, the knowledge of where I am and who I'm with escapes me. It comes back, after just a second of absence.

He's coaxing a reaction from me, stroking my tongue with his own, mine being unresponsive thus far. The slow stirring of something within me influences my giving into to his wishes, and I willingly engage in a dance, and not a fight for dominance.

He groans softly in my mouth at the first sign of my complying, and I find my arms raising to grasp onto his waist and the back of his neck to pull him closer. I have to drop the pack of cigarettes still clutched in my hand, the box now bent out of shape and probably the remaining cigarettes, as well. It had most likely gotten crushed sometime after beginning his enticing ministrations. But I don't care about it at all. I think that this addiction has become my first priority, ranking high above my incessant craving for nicotine.

There's still a part of me that's doubting his motives. That part is urging me to push him away and demand what this is, and why we're doing it, but I would probably hate myself for it after. This is a rare situation, in which Mello gives and I take. It's usually the other way around; in fact, it has _always_ been the other way around. This is so different from the norm. He's stimulating something in me that no one else ever has...something that I hadn't even known existed in me until now. And somehow, Mello has roused it to life. This unstoppable thing has been awaken from its dormant state by the last person I'd ever thought would go to the trouble to shake from its sleep.

His hands slowly trail down, away from my arms. For a moment, I feel afraid that he's going to let go. But before the mortification for feeling that has a chance to affect me, his hands make it to my hips, and slips down to rests on the jutting bone there. I almost don't succeed in stifling the moan begging for release when one of his fingers brush the bare flesh exposed, my shirt having ridden up slightly.

I'm beginning to get light-headed and there are spots appearing behind my closed eyelids, which is an obvious sign of oxygen deprivation. Mello's probably faring better, I expect, because I have a disadvantage due to my constant smoking.

I pull away and immediately miss the sensation of his delectable tongue in my mouth. But it's a relief to fill my lungs with air, nonetheless.

My lips are wet, coated with his saliva. It makes me smile, just a small quirking of the edges of my lips, but still...a genuine smile. Why such a simple detail pleases me, I don't know. But I like it. It feels messy, but at the same time it's pleasantly moist, soft, and...nice.

Even though the light is dimming outside, as night is upon us, I can see him very clearly. The sight of his supple, deliciously reddened lips, wet like mine, makes me want to forget letting my lungs catch up and attack his mouth again. But the feeling of my chest heaving against his is enough, for now.

His eyes are dilated, and though the wildness is still swimming in those deep, blue depths, there's clearly a lustful edge to it. This throws me into a fit of confusion again, because although Mello is a passionate person, he has never looked like it in _this_ sense. And then I remember that sometime previously during my soliloquy, I'd told myself that thinking about much at all will get me nowhere.

Shutting off that train of thought, I focus in on the small upturning on the edges of his mouth, forming not a smirk or anything close to a maniacal grin, but a smile. The sight of the brilliant flush on his cheeks ignites the same response in me, even though I'm sure I already had some obvious pink dusting my own face.

For once, I'm glad my eyes aren't shrouded by my goggles, because with them, everything is tinted in orange. I want to see the brilliance of the color in his eyes, specifically. But he will never know that. That is not a confession that will _ever_ leave my lips.

After becoming sufficiently oxygenated, he swiftly dives in again before I can even begin to prepare. The surprising aspect of it is exciting, and I decide that I like Mello's spontaneity.

As he brings my bottom lip into his mouth and begins sucking gently, all hope is lost to hiding how much I'm really enjoying this. A scream builds up in my throat, but all I allow to be released is a low moan.

"Mmm—_Mello_..." I gasp, hoping that I haven't ruined anything by breaking the relative silence that had enshrouded us. The noise evokes a reaction from him, a positive one, fortunately, and he nips harshly at the sensitive flesh of my lip, arching against me.

The stinging caused by his teeth is not at all unpleasant. I've always feared physical pain, but the way Mello delivers it makes me want more...more, in a rather gratuitous amount.

It makes my previous piqued excitement escalate into growing arousal and my thighs tighten around him, pushing him into me. He doesn't resist this at all. He only clutches my hips tighter and quickens his actions.

My hand, still on his waist, makes its way up his shirt. Oddly, he isn't wearing his standard leather attire. I'm thankful for this, because his baggy, black t-shirt is much easier to snake one's hand underneath than the tight things he usually wears.

His skin is lightly moist with perspiration and heated under my dancing fingertips. I trail my digits up his protruding spine, feeling each individual ridge of bone before moving onto the next. But I'm anxious again, because he might not like this.

He pulls away, and I feel so neglected without his attention at my lips. And that's when I'm sure my worst fears have been conformed, and he's going to shove me away and leave me here, hot and quivering...

His response to my gentle fondling is surprising and certainly not what I expect at all. He groans softly before grinding his hips against mine, without any reluctance or hesitation whatsoever.

"Ah...oh, _god_...Matt..."

The lascivious way he says it makes me so unbelievably aroused. My name has never sounded so beautiful before. He makes it roll off of his tongue so smoothly, and his breathlessness gives an edge to it that makes me buck my hips forward so violently that it nearly knocks him off. The surge of pleasure racing up my spine with each movement is sensational. It nearly drives me mad and leaves me a bit dizzy.

He nuzzles his face in my neck at begins kissing the neglected flesh again, though, this time, not so delicately. He sucks and nibbles, and even caresses the heated skin with his skilled tongue. I want to throw my head back and writhe against the wall, because the energy being built up and cruelly confined has to go somewhere, but I resist the urge. I don't want to cause him to lose his spot on my neck, or worse, knock him off of me.

But it's getting harder, and the low murmurs being released by both of us are slowly gaining volume, and the meshing of our pelvises through the restricting barrier of clothes is only getting quicker and more frenzied.

My hands get the idea before my mind does. They abandon the back of his neck and slip out of his shirt, and I swear I can feel him frown against my skin at the action.

He freezes completely when the traitorous appendages reach the front of his pants, pulling gently at the edge of the fabric. That's when _I_ get the idea, the idea my body had before my mind. It comes in a startling revelation that I want something...something else...something more. After I get over the initial shock of that, my movements halting momentarily, I whimper needingly at the thought of it.

He's still frozen, I finally realize. I look away from the front of his pants, where it is apparent his hardened length is straining for an escape, and into his eyes. I can see that he's shocked and maybe a little worried, though, I don't know why. It almost physically hurts to think of the possibility that he's regretting this now, and that he's going to bring an end to it.

Instead, he whispers, "Are you sure?", almost as if he knows exactly what my intent is and what's going through my lust-fogged mind. That makes me terrified at the prospect that I'm so open, so easy to read, that he knows of anything I may be hiding from him...every thought, every action, and everything I'm not proud of. I grimace, and try to shake that thought away, because I know there's nothing I can do about it.

Mello, apparently, reads this as my response to his question.

He pulls away, and immediately, I miss the feeling of his breath on my neck. I don't know what he's feeling because his disheveled hair is blocking my view from his face.

Without thinking, I tighten my grip on the edge of his pants and swiftly pull him against me just as he's about to disengage himself. This results in the uncomfortable meshing of our faces, as Mello had no control of the direction of his body movement. I suppose I'm at fault completely, but I can't bring myself to regret it. I have him as physically close as possible again.

"What the fuck?" he asks me, eyes wide in confusion as he leans back to look at me. He says this not angrily, like how it is when he usually uses that crude phrase, but confusedly. I think the innocent look in his eyes and his eyebrows knitted in bewilderment is endearing, but I try not to let that show on my face.

One of my hands finds its way to the back of his neck again, the other one remaining dangerously close to his arousal. Mello's face twisting into even deeper confusion at that action, and I cautiously guide him to my lips. This is probably the most daring thing I've done in my life, which is probably so pathetic, I shouldn't admit it, even in my head. But that brief feeling of insecurity is destroyed when he eagerly responds to me, his lips meshing into mine with the same ardor that they'd had moments ago.

He shudders against me as I fidget with the zipper on his pants. It takes a great amount of will-power to pull away with him groaning softly in my mouth, but I find the strength to do it, nonetheless. It's imperative. I have to wipe any irrational doubt or hesitation from his mind.

"Yeah, I am." I tell him breathlessly, hoping he'll know I'm talking about his previously voiced question. For a moment, he has that confused expression again that makes me wish I'd been clearer with my meaning, but there's an obvious look of dawning realization just following it.

I interpret this as permission to continue. My movements are shaky, despite how sure I am of this.

For once, I'm glad he can read me so well. He can see my outward nervousness, and he knows that capturing his lips with my own again is just the thing to alleviate it.

The growing desire in me makes my movements clumsy, and the invasion of his tongue in my mouth that I _should've_ foreseen proves to be quite the distraction. But with my convicted mindset, I'm able to successfully slide his jeans down his thighs. He helps get them off completely, shimmying out of them gracefully, while not once ceasing the heated kiss.

I gasp in surprise when I feel that he hadn't been wearing anything underneath his clothes. The tightness in my pants grows when I think about how he's rocking against me, with nothing to dull the sensations.

I can finally see all of him when he pulls away from me to take his shirt off. Heat pools in my abdomen at the sight of his slender, lightly muscled figure. His hair is splayed messily across his forehead and around his neck, damp from sweat. I've never seen anything so erotic in my life. The lust in his eyes makes my yearning for his touch grow, even though that seemed to impossible.

He returns his attention to me after being fully undressed. His hands are immediately at my at the edge of my shirt, and I'm temporarily blinded by the sight of it being pulled over my head. He does this with quick, impatient movements, like we don't have much time. But my own desire is burning through me and I'm almost moaning at the mere thought of his naked flesh against my own, so there simply isn't a fast enough pace for either of us.

He pauses for a small moment, and then tosses my shirt aside before working on my jeans hastily.

I relish the feeling of his slick flesh in contact with my own. The euphoric bliss is indescribable—even more so when he begins trailing wet, heated kisses down my chest.

His hand's movements at my jeans don't falter as his mouth unexpectedly descends further.

"Nnng..._fuck_!" I scream, as his tongue swirls around my nipple. He smiles against my skin as he continues, sucking enthusiastically at the nub while moan shamelessly.

My right hand finds his head and I intertwine my fingers through his soft hair while he slowly slides my pants off of me at a frustratingly slow pace.

"Mello...Mello, please..." I murmur between groans of pleasure, hoping that he'll get the message without me having to be specific. He does, fortunately, and he swiftly frees me of my binding clothing.

I can't resist grinding my arousal against him, knowing that the thin fabric of my boxers is the only thing between us. Mello returns the action zealously while his fingers play with the hem of my boxers.

I can't think in my lustful haze, and I'm grateful for that. It would be terrible if logic got in the way now. This isn't just a want anymore, like it was in the beginning. It's a _need_, a roaring demand in the forefront of my mind. It would be utterly impossible to ignore it.

My boxers slip down my thighs and it lightly brushes the cigarette burn I'd accidentally given myself awhile ago. I almost wince, but the pleasure his fingers are bringing as they trail down my legs distracts me from the mild pain. His digits leave a burning path in their wake, allowing me to feel his touch all over at the same time. It leaves me squirming against the wall and craving more.

The air hits my painfully erect member, but it's not as cool temperature-wise as I expected. The air is hot and heavy around us, but despite that, I want nothing more than to share his body heat. It's an irrational desire, because I have more than enough of my own.

My wish is fulfilled with no verbal communication on either of our parts, strangely, and his mouth is at my neck again. After a few silent moments of waiting for his lips to make contact once again, I begin to ask what he's doing, or what he's planning to do. But he speaks just before the words have the chance to leave my mouth.

"What do you want me to do?" he asks, breathing hotly in the shell of my ear. That sensual action nearly distracts me completely from his question, but with a great amount of concentration, I force myself to assess it.

He'd asked a question similar to that twice, before this had all begun. And now it seems he's revised the question from '_What should I do?_' to '_What do you want me to do?_'.

What do _I_ want him to do?

What is he doing? Is he giving me the opportunity to decide what we do...to decide what _he_ does?

Out of every astonishing thing that has happened tonight, this tops all of it. This is so unbelievably out of character for him. He must realize that he's handing all of the control over to me. It must be very uncomfortable for him. But feeling Mello right now, my hands on his moist flesh and his muscles lax underneath my fingertips, I think that he's never been so at ease. The only thing I can think of that's slightly similar to how he is now is the brief euphoric expression he gets when he takes the first bite out of a brand new chocolate bar, but even that doesn't come close.

Mihael Keehl...always guarded, uncaring, seemingly selfish, and addicted to control, is giving me the thing he most likely cherishes more than life itself. He bases his dignity on it. I'm fully aware of how important it is to him, and so that is why his question catches me completely by surprise.

What would it mean if I denied this gift, coming in the form of an incredible opportunity? If I don't accept this, it might give Mello the impression that I don't consider the thing he values most to be worthy of my possession. I can't throw that away. It's for my sake, saving me any future regret, and Mello's, so that I can let him know that I could never find it in myself to betray him with the control he's so generously given to me.

"Mello," I murmur, burying my face in the crook of his neck and inhaling his scent before continuing. "I want you to touch yourself."

I don't have the faintest idea where those words came from. The moment after they leave my lips, I want to take them back with a desire burning so strongly, it almost hurts. He would never subject himself to that; he would never willingly place himself in such a compromising position. I realize how selfish that was of me, to put my wishes before his own, even though I'm not exactly sure what they are.

The sensation of his warm breath on my neck regrettably ceases, a sign that he's stopped breathing. He's obviously surprised. Hell, even I am. I didn't know...I just didn't think...

"Yeah?" he says, exhaling once again. "Okay, then."

I'm so shocked that I barely register the smirk in his amused voice. Why would he agree? Why would he do this for _me_?

I try to focus back on the present, because I'll have time to debate this in my mind later.

He rocks backward, and I immediately miss his warmth so much, almost to the point of whining out loud about it. That compulsion is successfully stifled when I nibble harshly on my bottom lip, creating just enough pain to distract me from his absence.

He gives me a sultry gaze that quickens my breathing substantially, and parts his beautifully toned thighs, slow enough to make me squirm and tremble in anticipation.

Before I have much time to stare hungrily at what he has to offer, his right hand is at his member, the left behind him and his arm extended to maintain his balance.

Smearing the pre-cum down his length, he begins pumping with slow and deliberate movements, gradually progressing in speed. He throws his head back, exposing the pale and smooth curve of his neck as he releases a salacious, drawn-out groan.

My fingers dig into the floor so roughly that my nails begin to break under the pressure as I watch him pleasure himself. My member throbs in response. I can feel my own weeping pre-cum slide down my length. It takes everything to not take myself in my hand and pump myself fiercely. But I can't, because there's something irrational stopping me from doing it. If anyone's going to do that, it should be _him_. It should be in _Mello's_ hands, and not mine.

As stimulating as it is, watching his chest heaving and his breathing escalate as he pleasures himself, I can't abstain from his addicting touch any longer. I suppose it's a weakness, this dependence on him, but I honestly can't bring myself to care about that right now.

"M-Mello..." I say roughly. His movements slow at the sound of my voice, and I have to give him credit for having so much self-control. His eyes, though still clouded with lust that makes his appearance even more provocative, clear slightly as he turns all of his attention onto me. That makes me feel warmer.

"I want you." I tell him, in a low and husky voice that I didn't even know I had the ability to use. The demanding tone I hadn't meant to use surprises even me. It would sound more fitting if Mello had said it, honestly.

Based solely on observation, and not on personality traits or anything else, I think Mello likes this. I think he views my more aggressive side as alluring, if the flash of yearning in his eyes is anything to go by.

"Matt..." he moans, crawling the short distance back to me. "Matt..._yesss_..."

His inability to articulate anything clearly is amusing to me, because he's never had that problem before. The fact that I've done this to him makes me slightly more confident and sure of this. I know he wants this badly. It's quite obvious, as he's moaning from the mere prospect of it. I can relate.

I know it will hurt, but it's worth it. I want to give something back to him, as he's given me so much already. That may make it seem like my personal motivating factors are completely selfless, but that isn't the case. I want him inside of me, regardless of the inevitability that it's going to be unpleasant at first.

He's back, and I'm enveloped in his warmth again. I sigh contentedly at the feeling, having pathetically missed it very much in the small amount of time his flesh wasn't against mine.

His fingers are at my lips, and I'm puzzled for a moment before he gives me very brief instructions regarding what to do.

"Suck." he tells me in a soft tone. Then I feel foolish for not realizing immediately what I have to do. Of course I have to make his fingers as slick as possible; we don't have any lube nearby. At least, _I_ don't. He doesn't either, obviously. If he had, we wouldn't resort to this.

I welcome his fingers enthusiastically. My tongue slides down each of the three digits inserted and I suck gently, throughly wetting them. His eyes flutter closed and his lips part, and I realize what images might be flitting through his head as a result of my provocative oral action on his fingers.

He pulls them out of my mouth and a string of saliva follows with them. I smirk in amusement at the sight before growing serious as he shoots me a glance that I read as a warning. We're already far beyond the point of no return, but this cements that notion solidly.

After mentally preparing myself, I feel his finger at my entrance. It plunges in and I can't help but wince at the feeling. It's strange and awkward. No one has ever done this to me before, and so I think my aversion to the feeling is justified.

He adds a second and I shudder uncomfortably, not yet anywhere close to used to the feeling yet. He looks up at me apologetically, and that alone is enough to push my mind in a different direction. I don't think I'll ever get completely used to this side of Mello. That isn't to say I don't like it, because that certainly isn't the case. I absolutely enjoy it, but it's just...different.

I stiffen and wince as he adds the third finger. It's slightly painful now, but I close my eyes and try to forget about that. They curl into the sensitive flesh, which I'm not prepared for. My breath hitches, naturally, but I endure that with the same attitude as I've been having all along.

_I want this; I want this, _I chant in my head. _He's the only one I would let do this to me. He's the only one that could do this, that could make it possible for me to escape the degradation I would inevitably feel with anyone else...or feel with the selfish Mello. But this isn't typical Mello. This isn't Mello being selfish. Though I know he's taking; he's getting a lot from this—I know he is, or _

_else he wouldn't have started this—I'm getting a lot from it, too, because he's giving something generous to me._

My thoughts help to calm me a little, and I feel as prepared as I could possibly be for something like this.

Mello reaches to grab my ankle. I'm a little unsure and confused for a few moments, until he guides it to his shoulder. Blushing a little at my naivety and hoping that he doesn't notice that, I position my other ankle on his unoccupied shoulder. This causes me to lean heavily on the wall behind me, almost all of my weight imposed on it.

While positioning himself at my entrance, Mello glances up at me, almost shyly. It's yet another emotion that I've never seen on his face until tonight. Again, it befuddles me. But I realize, with mild surprise, that the foreign expression is becoming of him. He seems so raw right now...so _human_. Mello experiences things like normal people do, like insecurity, uncertainty, and quite possibly, even regret.

Regret.

It's such a simple word, and yet, so contrastingly complicated. Its many connotations proves that it goes far beyond the dictionary definition.

I _don't_ want to believe that Mello experiences this. He can't...he's Mello. Mello's decisive, impulsive, and knows _exactly_ what he can and can't do, based on his personal morals and ethics. Still, there's a part of me that's convinced that he feels the need to atone for something. That can't be right, though.

With those thoughts flowing through my head, it begins to grow more and more unbelievable that Mello is being motivated by regret, or that the expression he's currently wearing is something akin to insecurity.

This isn't Mello...it's _me_.

I force a small grin to cross my face, partially to cover the inner turmoil that realization brought about, and partially to assure him that there's nothing wrong with this. I don't know how I'll think about that particular aspect of what we're doing later, but right now, I know I can't hold out much longer.

A look of suspicion crosses his face, as if he's mentally questioning my sincerity, as he probably should. But that's quickly washed away with a look of determination, something more familiar for Mello. This is followed by a gentle rocking of his hips, and his slow penetration.

Despite the fact that I've been prepared, and despite the fact that he's conscientiously going slow when his hormones are probably screaming at him to do the exact opposite, it feels to me as if neither of these are existing factors. Of course it would be painful; this intrusion is much larger than his fingers. Even with all of that in mind, it doesn't dull the aching at all. I feel like I'm being split in half. I have to keep myself from screaming as I feel the pain racing up my spine.

The kiss comes as a surprise because my eyes are tightly shut closed. I hadn't seen his approach. He's trying to distract me from the pain, I realize, as he molds his lips to my own fervently. I try to kiss back, and it gets slightly easier as the pain slowly subsides.

I begin to pull away to speak, but his hold on my lower lip doesn't loosen and I'm forced to talk as he sucks wildly at the abused flesh.

"M-Move...uhh..." I groan loudly as his tongue unexpectedly slips into my open mouth.

He's all too happy to oblige as he guides his pelvis forward, clashing with mine as he fully sheathes himself inside of me. It makes the discomfort worth it when he moans loudly in my mouth. I can even feel his heartbeat accelerate against my chest which makes my own, in turn, do the same.

He slowly pulls out most of the way and thrusts back in, just as slowly as before. I'm beginning to grow used to the feeling of this. It's almost as if my body is accommodating for the intrusion. Though it still doesn't exactly feel pleasant, the aching has been dulled substantially.

Mello repeats the motions, thrusting in and out and gradually gaining speed when I don't openly wince or protest.

His head lolls back as one long groan escapes his lips. I love looking at his hair, plastered to his forehead with sweat, and the fluttering of his half-lidded eyes. He's beautiful, simply put.

The scream rips from my throat even before my brain registers the euphoria washing over me. For a moment, I'm blinded, and so consumed in the raw pleasure that I'm close to passing out. He's hit something in me, something so sensitive that it not only obliterates any semblance of pain, but it also sets forth the unexpected waves of pleasure coursing through every fiber of my being.

To my dismay, he stops moving. Maybe...was I supposed to remain quiet?

"M-Matt...what...did...?" he asks, not even attempting to hide the fear in his voice. I hear the nervousness much more clearly than I do the actual words. That's fortunate, since the words make no sense, anyway.

He must think that he's done something wrong, that he's injured me somehow. It's odd, to think that he cares. But frustration outweighs the warmth I should be feeling at the thought that he wouldn't want to harm me, because I've just been given a small taste of what my body is capable of enjoying.

I lurch forward and pull his upper body toward me, using my legs at his shoulders as leverage.

"Faster..." I plead, drawing the word out in a groan, trying to impale myself further on him.

He hums lowly, pleased and slightly relieved, as I'd imagine, and rocks in and out of me with fervor. He repeatedly hits that sensitive spot I'd had no idea could bring out so much pleasure.

"Fuck! God, Matt...you're so tight..." he breaths lowly. I watch him swallow, the small protruding of his Adam's apple moving in doing so.

My toes and legs are tingling, but it's to be expected because they're being unnaturally elevated. This feeling is different, though, and not unpleasant, strangely. I seem to be having that experience over and over again tonight. I like discovering things about myself, sure, but much more so with Mello. He's intriguing, and that's what makes him so alluring to me. It's a wonder, how he can look so radiant and angelic while mercilessly pounding into me.

I honestly wouldn't be surprised if I passed out at any moment now. Even though my head is smacking against the wall, as well as the rest of my body as he unfalteringly abuses my prostate, the ecstasy he's imposing on me numbs any pain from either external or internal forces.

I've never felt bliss to the extent, almost to the point of insanity.

Just when I think the sensations couldn't possibly get more heightened, he takes my weeping member in his hand and begins pumping in sync with his thrusts. I throw my head back and it hits the wall loudly as I mewl in appreciation, basking in the feeling of his fingertips gracing the stimulated flesh and his palm sliding up and down my length, slick with pre-cum.

I'm beginning to meet his thrusts with my own as I feel close, drawing nearer and nearer to my peak. The coiling in my lower abdomen is unbearably tight, pulsating and impatient for release.

Mello shudders and his hand goes limp for a moment.

"_Ma-ahhtt!_" he screams, filling me with his hot seed as he comes. I feel the beginnings of my own orgasm sparking explosively in me, being thrown off the edge at the deliciously erotic way he says my name.

I buck my hips forward as I come in his hand. Every nerve in my body is alight with pleasure. It feels like all of the tension I've acquired throughout my lifetime has been given a chance for release. I'm delirious and intoxicated with sudden supernova of pleasure in my body. Everything I've been taught, all of my memories, and everyone I know is temporarily erased from my head. Everyone, except Mello. He's here. He's always been here. He's all I'm aware of at the moment. Mello, and the soul shattering climax he's brought forth from me.

The feeling slowly ebbs away, and with it, the heavy cloud in my mind that has been preventing all logical thoughts from forming. I feel abnormally warm, but not uncomfortably so. It's really pleasant. I think it's radiating from within me...at least, that's what it feels like. It's the kind of warmth I could probably never get with a blanket or any sort of artificial heating. But Mello gave it to me. It's strange, that I hadn't even realized I was cold before Mello warmed me up.

"Mello..." I mumble as he pulls out. I'm a little ashamed to admit that it leaves me feeling empty in more ways than one.

"Hm?" he murmurs lowly in response. I'm not sure how to reply. His name just happened to escape my lips, for really no other reason than to determine if it tasted the same on my tongue as it had before any of this. I'm relieved when it does, for the most part. There are a few changes, such as the absent stress behind my voice, or simply the sound of an oncoming question.

I simply shake my head lazily, instead of saying 'it was nothing', or 'forget it'. He seems to accept that easily enough. I can't be completely sure, though, because I'm unable to gauge his nonverbal response. There's a curtain of damp, reddish brown hair hanging in my face.

Shaking the hair away from my eyes with a jerk of my head, I gaze at Mello through hooded eyes, focusing on the slow movements of his lithe frame. He wipes his hand on my discarded striped shirt before drowsily moving over my boneless form.

Regularly, I would never allow myself to look at him the way I'm looking at him now. But with my sluggish brain not working properly, as well as my facial muscles, a grin inadvertently plasters itself on my face as my eyes stay glued to the only person that could ever come close to holding the title of my only friend. I wonder if that's subject to revision, if he's claimed both the title of friend and lover.

It doesn't seem to fit him well. I suppose it all depends on if he's willing to grow into it.

When he looks at me through the strings of disheveled golden hair, and smiles gently at me, it almost scares me more than a glare would, simply because it's genuine. I can only hope that he give me the opportunity to get accustomed to that expression.

He catches me by surprise, for about the millionth time tonight, as he makes his way over to my side. He's giving me his warmth again, for reasons completely unknown. Everything that's happened tonight has left me utterly confused, and this is no exception.

He's tense against me, trying to lean against my naked flesh calmly, but it's obvious that he's not relaxed. Something is worrying him. Even if it seems cheesy, that worries me, as well.

I slip my arm around the small of his back, relishing the warmth it brings, and hoping that he doesn't reject me like he probably would, normally. He tenses even more for a moment, either because he's uncomfortable with the contact or I've shocked him. It's most likely the latter, because he gradually relaxes and leans into me even further.

Everything is silent for a few moments, save for the sound of our breathing regulating. The room is dimly lit by the moonlight spilling through the slits between the haphazardly drawn curtains. It provides just enough light to allow me to see Mello, not that I need to anymore. I'm perfectly content with simply feeling him. I enjoy the sensation on my skin of the gentle protruding of his ribs every time he inhales.

His head falls on my shoulder and he places a light kiss there, just a gentle brushing of his lips. It makes my skin tingle pleasantly.

His breathing evens out, and he doesn't remove his head from my shoulder. I like feeling the softness of his hair at my neck, and his soft exhalations trailing down my bare chest. It's soothing.

I won't think about regret, or atonement, or removing myself completely from the one thing I know to be real. It's no longer even a possibility in my mind.

Maybe, even with the same desire in mind for the other, we can still make perfectly contrasting opposites. That has to be true. I _know_ this, for a fact, because it just wouldn't work without the differences we need to have if we want to have _this_.

My mind would have never even begun to conceive these affectionate gestures from Mello before tonight. I hope he knows that he can be this person around me. I hope he knows that I won't take advantage of the vulnerability he took the chance of baring to me.

I think, if I'm being completely honest with myself, he does know.

* * *

_So..._

_This is the first time I've written even slightly graphic yaoi, so if it seems a little...unnatural, that's why. I just thought I'd try it, and see where a senseless lemon takes me._

I'm so glad I got this done when I did. Finals are making me neglect my other story. :^(

_I love reviews, like just every other fan fiction writer on this site. Tell me how I did._ :)

_No flames, please._


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